


Been starving for too long on my own

by Wallissa



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bottom Tommy Shelby, First Meetings, Identity Porn, M/M, Pet Names, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:42:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22354288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wallissa/pseuds/Wallissa
Summary: Tommy, John and Arthur are out to meet a potential future business partner after being in contact with him for a while. It's a no-risk situation, but what Tommy didn't expect is that at the bar, he's confronted with a terribly distracting barman. Despite his best intentions, he can't quite seem to shake the phantom touch of those big hands off as they wait for their contact and finally decides to wander off to clear his mind. He doesn't get far.(A mix of rum and cigar smoke, broad shoulders and warm hands)written for the Sholomons Prompt Fest 2019!
Relationships: Tommy Shelby/Alfie Solomons
Comments: 16
Kudos: 349
Collections: Sholomons Prompt Fest 2019





	Been starving for too long on my own

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [weeo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/weeo/pseuds/weeo) in the [Sholomons_Prompt_Fest_2019](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Sholomons_Prompt_Fest_2019) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
> _Tommy is horny and touch starved, and that barman who's eyeing him is really sexy._
> 
> With permission I combined this prompt from the Promptfest with a prompt weeo sent me on tumblr - _a bar, a forgotten letter, one drink too many._
> 
> The title is taken from Mando Diao's "Shake".

„Now let me get this straight – “ Arthur speeds his steps to catch up with them, leaning over John’s shoulder. “The man sends us this letter, this little note with his details, and you –“ he gestures at John, who keeps his gaze fixed straight ahead. “-You left it at home. Did I get that –“

“I never fucking said I’d take it” John shrugs Arthur’s palm off and turns to look at him as he walks. “ _You_ said it was on the table, how’s that _my_ fucking fault?”

Arthur shoves at his shoulder and straightens, but when John turns fully and stops in front of him, buzzing with whiskey-hot intent and rightful anger, Tommy puts his palm on his biceps. “No fighting in front of the fucking pub. What kind of first impression is that? Forget about the letter.”

With that, he forces John to turn around again, facing the entrance of the pub. It’s right ahead, windows puddles of gold in the dark, reflecting on the rain-gleaming streets. No time for arguments.

“We don’t even know his fucking _name_ ”, Arthur hisses as they reach the door. 

Tommy raises a brow at him, testily. “We’ll know it when we hear it”, he says and pushes the door open, ending the argument.

As they cross the threshold, warmth envelops them and the scent of smoke seeps into their hair, their rain-fresh lungs. The place is bursting at the seams. A few booths line the walls, a set of pool tables and a row of dart boards are tucked to the left. To the right, there’s the bar.

It’s not a prestigious location, nothing designed to show off and impress. No, this is personal.

Tommy mentally squares his shoulders, then makes his way through the crowd. Hot bodies, beer, tobacco. It’s a familiar scent, a familiar kind of crowd, and Tommy moves easily. People make way without paying much attention to either of them despite the suits, and sooner than expected, Tommy’s standing in front of the bar.  
He places his hand on the countertop, wood under his palm, discoloured by countless spilled beers, but well-taken care of, gleaming-smooth. The sentimental value of this place is rich in the air, dripping from the smoke-stained wooden ceiling and the rows of gleaming bottles on the shelves behind the counter.

There are three barmen, but one steps towards him before he can note more of the other two than dark curls, white shirts. Not that Tommy cares too much. In fact, the moment the man steps into his line of vision, Tommy forgets about the other two.

He can’t be much taller than Tommy, but he’s broad, the rolled-up sleeves of his linen button down showing off his arms. There’s a red-gold shimmer in his beard and the patch of chest hair that peaks out of his unbuttoned collar. When he puts his forearms on the bar to lean in, his bracelets jingle faintly. 

“Yeah, sweetheart?” He has a malt-sweet voice, almost melodious.  
An unexpected jolt goes through Tommy at the sound and he frowns, mostly at himself. To buy time, he blinks slowly, then nods, sucks in his cheeks. Behind him, he can feel John and Arthur shift, their eyes on the back of his neck. “We’re expected.”

At that, the barman raises a brow, his mouth twitching into something that feels a lot like half-hidden amusement. Tommy’s eyes flick down to his lips and bites his own tongue at their fullness.

“Expected, is it?”

Tommy flicks his eyes up just in time to catch the way the barman is looking him up and down. He’s wearing dark grey, professional and bespoke. A thick button-down, cufflinks. Chanel in the dip of his throat, Tom Ford in his gleaming hair.

The barman hums, the smile back in the corner of his mouth, in his eyes. “Expected by who?”

At that, Tommy sighs, faux impatience, and reaches into the inside of his suit jacket. He pulls out a card and places it on the counter, uses two fingers to push it towards the barman.

Before he can pull back, the barman has reached for it. Warm fingertips brush the back of his hand, the touch running through him like an electric shock. Quickly, he pulls his hand back. The barman picks up the card, unfazed.

He looks at it like someone who usually wears reading glasses, low lashes and following his nose, full lips a little pursed. The card says “T. Shelby” and has his business number printed below, black on cream. Nothing else, so when the man considers it for more than half a minute, Tommy wonders dimly whether he’s putting on a show.

Next to him, Arthur is getting restless. “Listen –“

“Well, Mister,” the barman interrupts, “there’s a room prepared for you in the back. Down the side here, then through the door that says ‘Staff’, right? ‘Staff’, then up the stairs. First door to the right, Love, yeah?”

All the while, his eyes are solely on Tommy. Grey-blue, maybe a hint of green, Tommy can’t tell in this light. Long, gold-tipped lashes. The back of his hand tingles with the phantom touch of a warm hand. To shake it off, he taps the bar counter twice. “Right.” 

When he moves to pick up his card again, he finds it has vanished. The man folds his arms in front of his chest, biceps bulging. Tommy flicks his eyes up to his face and the man raises a brow, as if silently daring him to say something.

Before he can attempt to, however, Arthur leans in to whisper into his ear, voice a sharp hiss. “What? Is this alright?” 

Tommy turns, nods. Immediately, his head feels a little clearer, although green-gold-blue eyes still burn on his neck. To pacify him, he gives Arthur another, smaller nod and doesn’t turn as they make their way along the bar to the doorway.

As expected, there’s a flight of stairs leading downstairs to the restrooms right at the beginning of the hallways. At the end of it, as promised, there’s the door with the ‘Staff’ sign. Now that the eyes on him disappeared, Tommy wills himself to feel calmer, but the tingling down his spine doesn’t fade. 

The handle of the door is cool and smooth under his palm, then they’re facing another set of stairs. This one is much narrower than the one leading down and Tommy runs his fingertips along the wallpaper as they ascend. It’s obvious that the hallway they now stand in holds the business rooms, doors too plain not to be suspicious. 

The first to the right opens to a room overlooking a back alley drenched in the orange glow of a street lamp, the lace curtains tracing delicate shadows on the walls. Tommy finds the light switch and steps inside. A round table in one corner, out of sight of the window. The light of the milky-white lamp above catches in five glasses on the table. Welcoming. Tommy wanders over to the window, then to the forest of potted plants in one corner. A touch to one of the glossy, cool-thick leaves proves that they’re real and that his slight agitation hasn’t ceased.

Unfortunate, considering he needs a clear head for this, if only for Arthur’s and John’s sake. The meeting itself is a non-risk.  
Two months ago, there had been a bit of a mishap at a police department in one of the outer zones, the result of a half-year’s work on Tommy’s part. In the process, a good deal of delicate information had vanished. Or, well. Changed hands, to be exact. To make it less obvious, Tommy had decided to work with a palette knife instead of a fine brush and the material had ranged from petty theft to big families - the Blinders, naturally, but in the progress, he’d swept up this and that on the Jews, too.

It had been a very spontaneous decision, but Tommy’s been thinking about new ties ever since last Autumn, so he hadn’t hesitated for long. When a member of the family facing trial had found himself with a few unfamiliar names testifying in his favour, it’d been clear that the little offer hadn’t gone unnoticed. Since then, the courting has been progressing steadily, so really, there is nothing to be worried about now that they’ve been invited to a first face-to-face meeting.

In fact, Tommy feeling restless has the potential of making the wrong impression and eventually put this whole thing at risk, should Arthur and John pick up on it. So he takes a deep breath and shrugs out of his coat, draping is over the back of the chair facing the door in an effort to look at ease.

John and Arthur immediately follow his example, Arthur taking the chair facing the window while John sits next to Tommy. This way, the two possible openings are sufficiently guarded and they can easily cover for each other. It’s fine. There’s no reason to be nervous.

And the thing is, Tommy isn’t. He knows they’re as safe as they could possibly be. Still, he’s buzzing with energy. 

Sitting at the table makes it more obvious, his thigh jiggling, fingers tapping on the tablecloth. His mind is reeling, but none of it is in any way related to the meeting. Tommy is self-aware enough to give embarrassment a passing thought, but not more than that.

Instead, in an effort to distract himself, he considers his surroundings. He counts the potted plants in the corner (four pots). _Broad shoulders._ Glances at the two photographs framing the door (group shots, he’s not wearing his glasses). _Full lips, gold-red beard._ Considers the quality of the tablecloth (white, clean, well-ironed). _Big hands, gleaming rings, tattooed knuckles._ Looks at his own hands –

He’s hot. The phantom touch is still burning on his hand, the promise of warmth still sizzling on his tongue and he’s _hot_.

Fucking hell. And the thing is, it hasn’t been that long. A few days ago, he’s had a hand fisted in his hair, silk smooth thighs wrapped around his waist, wrinkling his shirt. But that’s not a ridiculously unsubtle touch to his hand, is it? That’s not broad shoulders and red chest hair, that’s not a toothy grin and tattooed knuckles.

Tommy stands, the scrape of his chair over the carpet alerting both Arthur and John. At the little shake of his head, they relax back into their chairs, but their eyes burn on his back as he walks towards the door.

“Where – “

“I’ll be right back. If they can’t send something to drink up, I’ll get a bottle myself.”  
Not his best excuse, but both Arthur and John fall silent, so it must be convincing enough. He closes the door behind himself.

In the hallway, he shakes his hands a little, hoping to shake the touch off like water droplets. And well. Where to, now? The loo? But now that he’s told them it would be the bar, he has every reason to go, doesn’t he?

An excuse for them as an excuse for himself. Which doesn’t exactly make it a better excuse, but Tommy doesn’t need good excuses.  
The word starts to lose its meaning as he descends the stairs, two syllables, ex-cuse, and he rounds the corner at the bottom of the stairs, bumps into someone and – “Oh, excuse me.”

He takes a step back, a warm hand on his elbow steadying him. It’s the barman. The shadows of the hallway emphasise his cheekbones, the wet shine of his mouth. “Excuse you indeed, poppet. Where were you hurrying off to?”

Was he hurrying? Tommy doesn’t recall, head crammed full of excuses. There’s a _hand_ on his elbow.

Up close, he smells a hint of that spicy-sweet, sharp scent of old-fashioned soap, a trace of cigars, _heat_. Tommy blinks. He feels hot, cold. The hand is still on him. An amused smile, full lips, glittering teeth. 

“Just - ? Looking for someone, maybe? Be sweet, tell me you’re on your way back to me.”

The touch is burning him up. He can feel the warmth, the size, the strength of the hand through the material of his shirt, and yet. Even that thin layer seems like entirely too large a barrier is separating them. He wants it gone. In fact, he wants it all gone and he wants those hands back on him, warm and rough on his arm, his chest, his throat, he wants - He looks up.

In the dim light, the barman’s pupils are enlarged, but when he takes in Tommy’s expression, his jaw slackens and they dilate further. His laugh is low and soft, vibrating through Tommy, sending shives down his spine while his grip on his arm tightens. “Fuck, you _are_ , aren’t you?”

Tommy’s pulse is fluttering, he can feel it in his throat. When he swallows, the barman’s gaze flicks down. Good enough.

Without bothering with an answer, Tommy reaches out, hooks his thumb into the man’s belt loop and pulls him in. First, the barman let’s himself be pulled, then takes one step towards him. Just like that, he’s crowding into Tommy’s space, pushing him against the wall of the staircase.

As Tommy’d suspected, he’s not that tall, but his sharp-sweet scent seeps into Tommy’s brain, clouding his thoughts. It’s all he needs to finally lean in and kiss him.

His mouth is hot, his lips almost unbearably soft, contrasting with his hand, warm and rough, on Tommy’s chin. It’s an almost ticklish touch, one that has Tommy off-centre and out of breath when they part for air.

The man doesn’t pull back, his breath hot on Tommy’s wet lips, his face close, eyes green-gold, pupils blown. “You’re Tommy, then.”

Tommy nods, licks his lips. His cheek, freshly shaven, feels hot. He dimly hopes the beard burn won’t be too obvious.

The man’s eyes trace the flick of his tongue, then he looks up to meet his eye again. “I’m Alfie.”

Tommy nods again, bites his lips, heat rushing through him. The grip on his arm tightens a little and his knees go weak.

“Yeah, Love? Alfie?” His – Alfie’s – voice is tinted with amusement, his laughter a soft rumble in his chest. Tommy’s gaze stays fixed on his mouth.

“Fuck, you fucking hurricane – “ Alfie leans in, kisses him, his tongue hot and slick, making his heart flutter – “fucking Tommy Shelby-“ another kiss and Tommy can’t think of an answer, his mouth slack, letting Alfie push in and pull away again, leaving him flushed, breathless – “Looking at me with your big fucking fuck-me-eyes – “ Tommy’s breath hitches with a humiliating little sound, but Alfie kisses it right out of his mouth. 

His head is swimming, he isn’t sure what he’d have said anyway, given the chance, other than maybe – “Come here, then.” This time, it’s him who pushes, his hands in Alfie’s hair and his tongue in his mouth.

Alfie’s big hand slips between their bodies and he squeezes Tommy through his trousers. The sudden pleasure is an electric shock down his spine, Tommy’s breath hitches and he’s suddenly aware of just how hard he is. 

“Love, for fuck’s sake.” Alfie teases two fingers down his length and Tommy’s hips buck, chasing the barely-there touch. His hands tighten in Alfie’s hair.

When he speaks up this time, Alfie’s voice is breathy, hot. “Listen, Love, I’m taking you upstairs to the business rooms for some, some proper business, yeah? This is a fucking disgrace, Sweetheart.”

Tommy might’ve been offended, but Alfie’s words turn into another sucking wet kiss, his hand squeezing him again. So he just pulls back a little and licks his lips. “I know where the business rooms are.”

It’s not the most impressive answer, but at the sound of his voice, sex-rough and deep already, Alfie’s jack slackens a little, his eyelashes flicker. His chuckle is soft, almost a purr. “Fuck, alright. Lead the way, then, Mister Shelby. Fourth door to the left. Fifth, if you think you’ll be noisy. Have to consider your fucking brothers, don’t we?”

Tommy licks his lips, nods. “Fifth.” With that and the satisfying sight of Alfie’s gaze dropping back to his mouth, he turns and makes his way back up the stairs.  
They creak under their steps, just like the floorboards of the corridor, but Tommy doesn’t think about the possibility of Arthur and John hearing them. There are more important things to occupy his mind with, like counting the doors on his left and listening for Alfie’s steps behind him, the back of his neck hot with his heavy gaze.

Another door knob, smooth and cool, but before he can hesitate, Alfie’s in his space again, crowding him against the door. The wood is glossy and unforgiving against his cheek and Tommy shivers when Alfie reaches around him to open the door, his hand on Tommy’s.

It’s only a few seconds, but Tommy is incredibly aware of Alfie’s warmth, of the big arm wrapped around him, the broad chest pressed against his back. Alfie’s breath, his short beard tickle the nape of his neck. When the knob turns and the door gives, Tommy stumbles a little, disoriented. 

He feels the cold air like an unwelcome, physical touch. The absence of Alfie’s touch is most apparent, almost painfully so. In an effort to pull himself together, Tommy straightens and looks around.

Window, table, potted plants, photographs, carpet, lamp. No chairs this time. Instead, there’s a sofa next to the window, yellow and flowery. Next to it, on a little cabinet, a row of bottles glinting in the light of the streetlamps falling in through the window. Alfie turns on the light.

“Business rooms, you said.” Tommy’s voice is dry, lightly amused. The sofa cushion is slippery-cool under his fingers.

Alfie laughs, the sound warm and high and molten sugar down Tommy’s spine. “Well, walls are no doubt nice and exciting, but for a proper gentleman such as yourself, Mister –“

“I’m not a proper anything,” Tommy says as he turns back to look at Alfie, his voice cutting through the heat building between them.

“Well, “ Alfie says, stepping back into his space, hand warm on Tommy’s hips. “I won’t fuck you like one, then.”

A sudden wave of arousal pulses through Tommy and he leans in once more. His tongue pushes past Alfie’s lips and his hands find their way back into his hair, tugging him in. _Greedy._

Alfie indulges him, returns the kiss, squeezes Tommy’s waist in a way that makes his knees go weak. However, when he reaches for Tommy’s belt buckle, Tommy pulls back. 

“Wait.” His mouth feels kiss-numb, his lips are bitten raw and his fingers fumble with the buttons of his shirt. It’s wrinkle, he’ll sweat through it, stain it – it’s better to just take it off now.

For a moment, Alfie watches, eyes hot. Then he reaches for him, brushes the shirt over Tommy’s left shoulder while he’s still busy unbuttoning it down his sternum. It’s a business suit, so he’s wearing an undershirt, but the ink still shines through and the touch of Alfie’s fingertips tracing the sun still sends shivers down his spine. Pearly buttons slip from his fingers.

Alfie’s grip on his hip tightens, his voice a low hum. “You like being touched, don’t you?” When Tommy scowls instead of answering, Alfie huffs a laugh and pinches his nipple through the undershirt, _hard_.

Tommy makes a soft, pained noise, hips twitching. With hot cheeks and ears, he finishes unbuttoning the last buttons with trembling fingers and a throbbing cock. “Do you want to make polite conversation or are we going to fuck?” His voice isn’t as steady as he’d like and Alfie’s soft laugh vibrates through him.

“Oh, Sweetie, I never meant to upset you, did I?” With that, he kisses Tommy’s neck, exposed with the way he’s turning his head away.

His mouth is warm, soft. Tommy’s head swims. He tries to pull back, but his one hand founds its way into Alfie’s hair again while the other is wrapped around his biceps and he can’t let go. “Don’t fucking mark me up.”

“You wear a starched collar, Love.” With that, Alfie angles his head down just a little and _sucks_.

Tommy’s knees buckle, but Alfie catches him, grip tight on Tommy’s hips, and slides his thigh between his. It’s probably – maybe – meant as a means of keeping him on his feet, but all it does is show Tommy just how fucking hard he is. And in turn, that Alfie isn’t doing much better.

That brings some part of Tommy’s brain back online since he can feel Alfie’s cock throbbing against his thigh and he wants that inside of him, _now_. He pulls his hands back and finally undoes his cufflinks, dropping them into his pockets. The shirt ends up draped over the little table, immediately forgotten when Alfie slides his hands underneath the undershirt. “Nice,” he says against Tommy’s mouth, then nips on his lower lip.

His palms are big and warm, drawing hot paths over Tommy’s chest that have him shivering. When they slip over Tommy’s hips to slide into his back pockets ( _”Nice!”_ ), he pushes against those broad shoulders. “Get on the sofa.”

Thankfully, Alfie complies without complaint. However, it’s probably less due to any trace of authority in Tommy’s tone and more due to the breathless quality of his voice.

He sits with sprawled legs, his big hands resting on his thighs, his eyes dark. “What about you take that off, too, Love?”

The undershirt is already halfway pulled out of his trousers, so it wouldn’t exactly be difficult, but Tommy is momentarily taken aback by Alfie’s attitude, by the amused pull of his lips. He’s about to decline, to say something harsh, but Alfie slides his hand up his thigh to palm his cock through his trousers. His eyes are still on Tommy, like he’s so damn sure that Tommy wants him enough that this’ll convince him and Tommy is _furious_ that he’s right, that he wants him so fucking badly his hands shake as he pulls the shirt over his head.

He’s on his lap in mere seconds and Tommy can almost convince himself that the way he pushes his tongue into Alfie’s mouth is some sort of revenge. Alfie laughs against his mouth, unconvinced and unimpressed.

His hands are back, though, warm and rough, stroking over his ribs, his chest, along his sides, fingertips and knuckles running up his spine, his arms. The touches are too light, they should tickle, but instead they make Tommy feel raw, have him shivering. He’s vaguely aware of the soft noises he’s making against Alfie’s mouth, but can’t bring himself to stop. It’s only when a gentle pinch to his nipple makes him moan that he pulls back, slightly confused and bewildered. 

Alfie licks his fat lips and looks at him with black eyes. Before Tommy can pull away, he tilts his head and nods towards the little cabinet with the gleaming bottles. “Be sweet, will you?”

Tommy doesn’t want to be sweet, but he can feel Alfie’s cock against his crotch and he very much wants _that_ , so he leans over the armrest anyways. A hand wraps around his thigh, another settles on his hip to keep him steady. Not that he needs it, leaning over the armrest and opening a drawer is hardly a difficult feat. Still, he keeps quiet, enjoying the firm grip as he pulls out a bottle of slick, a strip of condoms. He drops both on the sofa next to them, then settles back on Alfie’s lap, grinding down lazily. “That’ll make a mess,” he observes, eyes on the lube.

“Better take off your trousers then, Love.” Alfie’s hands slide to his arse again. 

“I meant the sofa.”

“Oh, are you worried I’ll get in trouble?” Amusement seeps back into Alfie’s voice and Tommy frowns.

“No,” he says, feeling once again like he’s been played. Ignoring Alfie’s little laugh, he sits up and undoes his belt. When he pushes his trousers past his hips, Alfie’s hands are back, pushing his underwear right down with them. And Tommy would complain, or at least get up to take the trousers off more comfortably, but Alfie’s hands are on his waist, his thighs, pushing at the last bits of fabric impatiently and squeezing him and he can’t pull back.

It’s a bit messy, not very graceful, but they manage eventually. The trousers and his underwear fall to the carpet in an untidy heap and Alfie still won’t stop touching him. He traces the top line of his shoe, up his Achilles tendon, ticklish-sweet. “I like this look.”

With that, Tommy is suddenly very aware that he’s naked except for his socks and shoes, sitting on the lap of a still dressed, sleazy-flirty barman while Arthur and John are waiting for his return a few doors away. However, Alfie’s hands stroke along his thighs to get back to squeezing his arse and his brain decides that the biggest issue is the fact that he can’t feel more of Alfie’s skin. Tommy frowns, hands settling on Alfie’s shoulders.

“What, pretty thing? You want me to take off the shirt?” Alfie licks his lower lip, pink-slick.

Tommy shakes his head. He opens his mouth to defend himself, but is distracted by the shine of Alfie’s mouth.

“Shut up,” Alfie says, not unkindly, and pulls back a little to pull the shirt over his head. He’s broad, as expected, blue-black ink and red-gold chest hair. When he wraps his arms around Tommy this time, his heat and the spicy-sweet-sharp scent are overwhelming. Dizzy-drunk, Tommy lets himself be pulled in. When his cock brushes soft-hot skin, he makes a terribly mewly little sound and tilts his head for another kiss.

This time, it’s a mess right from the start. Slick, hot, the drag of Alfie’s tongue leaving him weak in the knees. For a moment, Tommy loses himself like this, in the warmth of Alfie’s embrace, the touch that soothes him while making his heart flutter at the same time.

However, the click of a bottle cap has him pulling back a little, looking at Alfie and his glistening fingers. Usually, Tommy does that part himself, mostly out of convenience. But before he can say anything along those lines, Alfie leans in to nip on his earlobe. The soft brush of his breath sends a shiver down Tommy’s spine and he presses closer, strangely unsettled by the intimacy of this touch.  
“Let me, yeah? Let me touch you.”

It shouldn’t make him shiver like that, it shouldn’t make him moan, soft and vulnerable. But here he is, shivering, moaning. Nodding, eventually.

Alfie wraps his arm around him, big and warm, and his mouth settles back on Tommy’s throat. His fingers, however, are cold and slick. The touch is strange, the intrusion a little uncomfortable. Tommy tenses slightly, involuntarily, and Alfie’s other hand, big-warm, strokes soothingly along his side, over his thigh, his back.

Every touch of his palm seems to brush the tension out of his body, until Tommy is relaxed enough to take one finger, two. Alfie kisses his throat, his chin, his mouth, while he expertly and with great attention to detail takes Tommy apart. If he had the brain capacity, Tommy would be impressed.

As it is, all he can do is concentrate on his breathing to try and keep quiet as Alfie slowly works him open. He has a slow, even rhythm, alternating stroking along the walls with twisting and spreading his fingers, working him open while precome drips onto his stomach and Tommy pulls on his hair.

Three fingers in, Alfie brushes against his prostrate and Tommy’s spine goes rigid with the sudden rush of pleasure. This time, he can’t quite hold back his moan. He pulls back, away from Alfie’s greedy mouth, and squeezes his shoulders. Alfie licks his mouth, gives him a quick-hot, assessing look. “Yeah?”

Tommy nods, then winces when Alfie pulls his fingers free. The sudden cold, the emptiness make him frown a little, but then Alfie distracts him by handing him the strip of condoms. It keeps him busy for a moment, but then he lays eyes on Alfie’s cock, flush and pulsing-hard. He’s circumcised, precome sliding down the length and Tommy’s mouth drops open, slick and greedy.

His eyes follow Alfie’s hand as he strokes himself two, three times, clearly for effect. It works, of course, Tommy’s mouth watering as he bites his lip. He reaches for him, ignoring Alfie’s little laugh as he bats away his hand to roll the condom on him. He squeezes his cock once before pulling back, breathless already.

They move together, then, Tommy rising up on his knees and Alfie pulling him in by the hips. Tommy sinks down and finally feels the blunt pressure of Alfie’s cock against his hole.

He’d make this part quick, but Alfie’s hands, one sticky with lube, the other warm and dry, hold and guide him. Thus, he feels his length fill him slowly, hot and slick.

When he’s finally sitting on Alfie’s lap, they both pause, momentarily overwhelmed. Tommy feels full, almost feverish. Alfie’s running his hands mindlessly up and down his sides, touch delicate enough to burn.

Finally, with unfocused eyes, Tommy gives an experimental little roll of his hips and pleasure sparks through him, making him gasp. Alfie hums and gives a shallow thrust, his hands on Tommy’s hips tightening. It changes the angle slightly and Tommy moans, digging his fingers into Alfie’s shoulders to give himself leverage and _why_ did he wait so long to do this again? Pleasure is buzzing though him, he feels so full and it’s _perfect_.

Slowly, he establishes a smooth rhythm, making full use of his muscle-memory. With every self-indulgent twist of his hips, his thoughts become more incoherent. An endless swirl of _why did I wait this long? This is perfect. I want this all the time._

He feels hot, drunk on pleasure, on the thick length of Alfie’s cock. He fists a hand in Alfie’s hair, leans and almost misses the sound of his own voice, brushing against Alfie’s full, kiss-raw lips. “I want this all the time.” He’s half-conscious of what he’s saying, of the hot-needy, sweet-demanding tone of his voice, but he can _feel_ Alfie’s cock twitch deep inside him, the little hitch in his hips that almost throws Tommy’s rhythm off.

“All the time?” Alfie’s words are half-slurred, his voice melodious to the point of being unintelligible. His grip on Tommy’s hips tightens.

Tommy, delighted at both, nods. He licks his lips, tastes Alfie on his tongue and circles his hips. His breathing hitches, sparks explode behind his eyelids and his knee threatens to slip from the sofa.

Immediately, Alfie reaches for him and grabs his thigh. It stabilises him, but also keeps him from moving, which is liquid agony down his spine, considering the change in angle positioned Alfie’s cock _just right_.

Before Tommy can find the words to complain, though, Alfie’s hand on him slides to the small of his back, warm on the dip of his spine. “I’m going to flip you now.”

Here, Tommy wants to complain, _’No, let me move!_ , but Alfie doesn’t give him the time. He simply tightens his grip on Tommy and moves them. The room blurs around Tommy, a rush of movement that dims in comparison to the feeling of Alfie’s cock suddenly sliding in deeper. Tommy blinks at the ceiling, gasping, fingers digging into Alfie’s arms, the cushions of the sofa. Alfie gives a shallow thrust and Tommy makes a sound that barely sounds human to his own ears, a hot bolt of pleasure sparking down his spine, making his vision swim, his lashes flutter.

He gets another shallow thrust, two, then Alfie finds his purchase. With one knee propped up on the sofa and the other foot on the carpet, Alfie is leaning over him, eyes dark, hands gripping the back of the sofa, Tommy’s hip. Like this, Tommy’s thighs are spread a little wider and Alfie has more leverage. That realisation is the only warning he gets, then Alfie starts to _move_. He angles his thrusts just right and he’s thrusting _hard_. Tommy gasps, head thrown back, eyes unseeing on the ceiling. 

He wants to reach for his cock, throbbing and wet against his abdomen, but Alfie’s rhythm pushes him back and he grabs the back of the sofa instead. His fingertips brush Alfie’s, then he digs them into the slippery-cool fabric. It gives him purchase and he uses it to push back, meeting Alfie’s next thrust.

Pleasure sparks behind his eyes, blinding him and they both moan, almost surprised. It’s frantic after that, Alfie’s thrusts get sloppier, harder, and Tommy arches his spine to meet them. 

Alfie drops his head and the heat between them rises. Tommy blinks, watches the golden flutter of Alfie’s eyelashes, the furrow between his eyebrows, his full, pink-wet lips. He arches up to kiss him, lips salt-slick. Half-breathed moans caught between their mouths. Tommy tightens his thighs around Alfie’s hips. The sofa groans in protest, but Tommy doesn’t listen, drunk on pleasure, on Alfie. He can feel it building in his core and his voice breaks, moans barely more than hiccupped, breathy mewls.

Alfie makes a purring sound in the back of his throat, his grip on Tommy’s hip tightening. He’ll be bruised, Tommy thinks dimly, then Alfie’s voice drowns out everything else. “Fuck, Love, that’s right, come for me. Come on.”

It’s so fucking cheesy, but Alfie’s body is bracketing his, he’s surrounded by his warmth, the scent of his sex-hot body. His touch is ever-present and his cock feels so _good_. It takes two more thrusts and Tommy’s coming. Blinded by pleasure, gasping with it, lashes fluttering as it crashes through him in waves, seemingly forever.

He’s dimly aware of his moans, of Alfie’s mouth on his, sloppy-sweet. He feels the shiver that goes through him as he reaches his own climax, cock twitching deep inside him, moan caught against Tommy’s mouth.

After, they rest for a moment, waiting for the room to stop spinning. Alfie’s hot on top of him, breathing into the crook of his neck. It should be gross, Tommy’s stomach slick with come and his hair sweaty, but he’s still dully thrumming with pleasure and Alfie is a welcome weight, grounding him. He tries to be subtle about nuzzling him, but Alfie’s little purr proves that it didn’t work.

Finally, the come starts to get sticky, uncomfortable, and Tommy huffs, pushes at Alfie’s shoulder. With a grunt, Alfie sits up, taking Tommy with him. It’s only now that he realises how wobbly his knees feel, and in the end, it’s a joint effort to separate fully. They both wince when Alfie pulls out, leaving Tommy empty and sensitive.

Still a little languid, Tommy watches him get up and button up his trousers. Only then does he force himself to bend down and pick up his underwear. They dress in comfortable silence. Alfie picks up one of the carafes on the cabinet, apparently filled with water, and wets a handkerchief before passing it to Tommy to clean the mess on his stomach. It’s a sweet gesture, mostly because Alfie does it without thinking, and Tommy frowns a little at the flutter in his chest.

He also pulls out a cigar from God knows where and lights it, which makes Tommy’s frown deepen, his nose wrinkle. “Oh, none of that, Darling. Thought it’d be subtler if only one of us smelled like he’s just had a good fuck, no?” His cheekbones sharpen as he inhales, then smoke rises towards the ceiling. “Or is that a move you pull regularly, then? Some sort of tactic? Family business?”

Tommy exhales through his nose, breathing through the urge to roll his eyes, then shakes his head. “They won’t notice.” He buttons his cuffs, not looking up.

“Oh? They’re thick, then?”

Tommy thinks of John, then Arthur. He frowns, checks his appearance in the reflection of one of the photos next to the door. “Not that simple. I should go. Kept them waiting for long enough.”  
Almost an hour, his phone tells him as he slips it back into his pocket. _’What kind of first impression is that?’_ Damn it. 

“Yes, good point. Let’s go, then.” Alfie grabs an unopened bottle from the cabinet, then holds the door open for Tommy. 

The walk back is short, which means Tommy has little time to worry about the first encounter with their new partner. Still, he almost hesitates at the door, before realising that shyness won’t be of much help now. So he squares his shoulders and pushes the door open.

Inside the room Tommy left suspiciously long ago, he finds John and Arthur in the company of a mild-mannered looking, skinny man. His dark eyes go wide when the door opens and he rises, all fowl-skittish limbs and messy curls.  
Tommy barely has time to be surprised at this turn of events when the door closes behind him. “Easy, Ollie, sit down.”

The sound of Alfie’s voice startles Tommy and he turns, only to watch Alfie pass him and place the bottle he’d picked up between the glasses still glittering emptily on the table. “Sorry for that delay, gentlemen. Alfie Solomons. Charmed, I’m sure. Your brother and I already got acquainted in the hallway and I had to take him to the back for a taste, yeah? See, that’s the good kind. Ollie, will you open the fucking bottle, please? Thank you.”

At his introduction, John’s eyes widened. So did Tommy’s, probably, but for different reasons. His pulse is hammering in his ears and he rests his hand on the back of the nearest chair, startling badly when John slaps his hand on the table, pointing at Alfie. “Yes, Solomons! That’s the name! I _told_ you!”

Arthur gives him an unimpressed look. “You said it had an O in it.”

John replies, but Tommy doesn’t listen. He sits down heavily, staring at _Alfie Solomons_ who takes the seat next to him and has the audacity to look completely unfazed. 

His attention is only aroused when Alfie answers a question as he pours rum for them. “It’s excellent, yeah? Goes down smooth and sweet, just a hint of spice. Burns all the way down your spine. I told Tommy here – he can have it all the time, it’s all his, no? Just give me a call.” There’s a smile tucked in the corner of his mouth as he hands Tommy the first glass, their fingers just barely brushing.

Tommy is going to shoot him.

(They talk business, of course, rum sweet and hot in their throats. Dates and names and numbers. And when Alfie rests his hand on his thigh underneath the table, warm and heavy, Tommy doesn’t push it off.)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! :D  
> And, of course, thank you so much, Weeo, for posting this prompt on the Promptfest and for sending me that separate prompt on tumblr AND for being ok with my suggestion of combining the two! I hope you enjoyed it, despite it not being as much of an AU as it could've been. I simply couldn't resist keeping the gangster part in there as well and giving it that little twist for poor (?) Tommy at the end. 
> 
> Apart from that - I'm not a native speaker so if something sounds off to you, please alert me! I'd be very grateful.
> 
> Again, thank you so much for reading and if you enjoyed it, please consider leaving a heart of even a comment! You're also welcome to check out my [writing tumblr](https://typinggently.tumblr.com/), where you can find alfietommy drabbles (and me, chattering). 
> 
> See you there and have a nice day! <3


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